The Stupid People
I KNOW I AM A HOT-HEAD
— tim barrus
Nevertheless, I do not think I exactly warrant death threats. Most of them are about how I parent or foster parent or survive with at-risk kids. I use the tag FAMILY a lot. Even when what I’m writing has nothing to do with families, and I hate families, too. Many foster kids I know hate the idea of the family as much as I do.
I won’t go into a litany of what they deal with in life other than to say that the social transgressions remain as varied if vivid struggles to stay alive: HIV, prostitution, the numbers of young men getting all wrapped at the CDC, and, sometimes, often, the issues they bring with them seem based in the construction of identity, the CDC labeling them THE HARD TO REACH.
They are not hard to reach.
But when you dig too deep, you find that deep gets pretty thick. Guilt, severe depression syndromes, a lot of anger.
I get it because I have it, too.
The origins are almost irrelevant, and definitely ephemeral. I am not here to address that. I get that you can hate me, I am way too vitriolic, and I am here to tell you being marginalized taints the entire point of view. About everything. There is no excuse about eviscerating Medium for one foot in the writing universe, and another foot in the social media universe. I bemoaned the day that one would be the other, and that the other would be the other, too.
I listen to adolescents all day. Then I come here to listen to adolescent adults who are more adolescent than adolescents. Death threats are so yesterday’s infinitely adolescent response to a digital audience we are only now beginning to understand. Barely. What do haters want. What are the actual numbers or do they amplify everything. The Internet corrals them, over there is the barn for the haters, and all their hater stalls. Haters shit in straw.
Oh, sometimes to be left alone. Then, we might go off sometimes, still. Fuck reality. Fuck the system. Fuck my powerlessness or sense of it. For myself, I know I lose it at the gravity of so mush self-help on Medium combined with new definitions of what the writing life, in reality, looks like, and it’s kinda more grim that anything the Medium will tell you.
297,543,992,877 ways to lose weight by reading my blog and sending me money. To be the real you. Write your way to happiness. This bullshit pisses me off, and I try not hating on these people, but I hate them.
Sometimes, it shows.
I had to lower my profile. Death threats. All that dog eat dog behavior riles the stupid people up into a froth.
They are not worth shoveling shit at. The writers of all the self-help life coach drivel only are. God, they’re appalling. The stupid people gobble this nonsense up. Let them. The stupid people are the death threat people and these two groups will wage holy war and bloodshed.
Just for the hell of it.
Death threats. And you go too far, Mabel.
We have no reason to fucking live is all we have. We get all hammered about this shit that annoys us.
I know this: death threats shake me.
I can lie to you and tell you I am above it all. Normally, I would.
But no. Many of the death threats I have riled up with my nonsense are quite disturbing. They depress me something considerable. I need cocktails and pills. Especially all the going after me through kids. They fall apart easily, kids. I left Medium for a while. The death threats dwindle off into the sunset, but it takes time. I stopped writing for the bigger (bigger to me) publications here, although not one of those editors has ever contacted me, but my spies have. My name is shit with all of the editors from the South Pole to Cucamonga. They’re over me.
I get it. It’s the new low.
I’m a lunatic. About some things. Humans are a messy lot. Some of us will rant and rave and hate on people and write garbage about how some self-help set of crystals will save your life, and you will become clairvoyant in the process. In fact, you will live forever. You will shine like a shoe. I’m glad for you.
I wear motorcycle boots. Harley Davidson boots, honey.
I try to go condescending versus spew. It doesn’t always work.
Fuck death threats and the vulnerable among us should just go commit suicide because you said so.
You, mister hater and missus hater hater are beneath contempt. And patently absurd. You silly id stupid people. Go home right now and go to bed. You are grounded. I will not say, then, come get me, you imbecile, because too many of you will really do it. You do scare people. In time, some of it becomes more blunt or numbing and numbed and drugs help.
The fun kind.
I hate the unfun kind and have said so. Parents everywhere hate me. I want to know how it is they are out there in trenches attempting to reach the supposedly unreachable. That is why I write. To hate on slimebags on the Internet. But in a less screamy way that I really want to. I threw out my guns in 2015. Two years gun free. That is all I can say.
Don’t listen to me. Just shrug.
It goes away.
Hating the haters has no affect on a single one of them. It takes a lot of time and money to keep the troll suit on. Keep the discourse civil, but I gotta tell you, being civil with His Excellency is just more than I can do. You go be nice. I cannot do it. Motherfucker is one psychotic dude.
Riling up the haters is as crooked as a barrel of fish hooks because it employs the tactic of sanity. By electing someone who is insane. Insanity usually prevails and the haters win.
Another skirmish at least for me. I don’t see the death threat business becoming impoverished. Or more empathetic. So fuck them
They should all go kill themselves, but the chances for it are not good. That does not mean the stupid people have a reason to live.